


Night Shift

by Kyla_Wren



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Cyberpunk, Pre-Borderlands 3, Promethea - Freeform, depiction of an assassination so there's that to be aware of, post TFTB, tastefully done though in my opinion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren
Summary: Zane carries out a hit job in Promethea's rain-soaked metroplex.Set five years before Borderlands 3.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fire in my Soul, like Glitter and Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231380) by [Kyla_Wren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren). 



> This is an excerpt from a longer work, so... if you've read Fire In My Soul, you've seen it before! My b3 co-op partner suggested I post it separately here for anyone that just wants to read a little Zane doing what Zane does best - drinking? Killing people for money? Actually, both at once!

Zane pulled the hood over his hair with one hand, using the other to guide a swig of whiskey from his flask. It was pissing down rain. Through the lens of his human eye the colors of holo-adverts and streetlights blurred together into a neon mist, hot colors splashing against the gathering dark. His cybernetic view panned across the boulevard, picking out every passing face in crisp detail and throwing up biosignatures. Human, human, human. _Big surprise._

The operative was posted fifty stories up in the air, digitally cloaked and crouching like a gargoyle on the geometric glass balcony of one of Meridian’s most expensive skyscrapers. Droplets raced across the window behind him, their speed increasing as the rain picked up. If an electric storm started in earnest he’d be in for a real show up here. Unfortunately, the oversized sniper rifle in his hands would make him into a fine lightning rod.

Zane switched his patch’s visual feed to accept the input of his SNTNL drone. It hovered hundreds of feet below him, drifting among the robotic spheres that floated like soap bubbles above the pedestrians. The facial recognition program (written by Zane himself, _an’ none too shabby, thank ye_ ) parsed the crowd. Here a girl in a crisp scarlet jumpsuit leapt to avoid a puddle. There an old man unlocked a sleek model of cyclone with a key fob. The drone analyzed each face, waiting for a match with the target’s file.

A tall man was moving with the crowd. Dark suit, yellow-tinted glasses, carrying a barrier shield umbrella. Face scan: Positive Match. SNTNL analyzed the shield strength. 500. _Two shots, then_. Bang bang, quick enough to prevent a reaction. Zane lined up his scope, redirecting the feed to his eyepatch and using it to bump aim accuracy to 100%.

His echo vibrated. The operative was about to ignore it, but _Incoming Visual Communication: EMPLOYER_ scrolled across his eye. He lowered the rifle an inch and opened the screen to the nervous face of Rhys Strongfork.

“Heyyy, Agent Flynt! It’s me.”

“Atlas,” Zane grunted, acknowledging the greeting. “Listen, boyo, if ye want this target dead, yer gonna have to stop buzzin’ me.”

“Yeah, about that - I have to update the mission _juuust_ a teensy bit.”

The operative raised a brow. “Contract’s set, lad.”

“No, no, I’m not backing out, it’s just that… well, this is embarrassing. To be honest, ahh, I’ve been robbed. It’s actually kind of an urgent situation.” 

Zane put his gun down with a sigh. He held the echo closer to his face, scrubbing at his platinum hair. Droplets scattered from his hood.

“What d’ye need?”

“Well, he stole some proprietary information. A data drive. Basically all of the prototype designs I’ve been working on this year. They’re encrypted, so it would take some time for anyone to crack into them, but I don’t want, um-”

“Ye don’t want ‘em in his pocket when he’s lyin’ dead in the street,” Zane finished for him. “I gotcha. Right, I’ll get the drive an’ finish the job.”

“Thanks! You’re the best. Seriously, this is a huge relief.”

“No problem, boyo.” The operative shook his head and closed the connection. The new head of Atlas was an odd one. Nice fella, though. 

He had contacted Zane for the job with a strange mixture of apprehension and pride - worried about dealing with a contract killer, proud that his rebooted company was getting enough traction again for corporate saboteurs and assassins to be after him. Most of his interactions with Zane were those of a kid wearing his father’s suit and playing CEO.

The operative picked up SNTNL’s feed. It was recording the target’s path as they crossed the main drag and separated from the crowd. They were turning down a narrow side street lined with clubs and arcades, stopping at the door of a place called Quartz and showing their ID to the bouncer. The drone took a scan of the ID’s metal surface. Saul Torrence. The name matched the target’s current pseudonym.

Zane stood up, letting rain course over his shoulders. Thanks to Atlas (and their start-up venture capital) he had a modular fast-travel station set up in the rented office space behind him. There was a public one in the building’s lobby, but it recorded your path and was in full view. Not ideal. He paused to switch weapons and outerwear, exchanging the oilskin poncho for his jacket with the glowing collar and spider crest. Promethea was the only place in the galaxy where LED accents helped you blend in.

The closest fast-travel station to Quartz was on the corner of the block. Zane stepped away from the terminal as soon as he digistructed, making room for the next travellers in the queue. When it was his first time in a new neighborhood, the operative made a point of striding like he was out on his everyday commute. Easygoing but purposeful, without looking to either side. It was the best way to not draw attention to yourself. With the right confident gait you could walk straight into a trash-piled alley in the rain without seeming at all unusual - which is just what he did.

He whistled for SNTNL and let the drone come to rest on his wrist like a falcon. Clipping it to his belt, Zane found the back loading dock of Quartz. There was a digital lock on the door, which he could hack if he had the time. He went for the ol’ _swift kick_ method instead. The wet rusted door groaned open. The trash room was empty - a stroke of luck. Inside he heard the muted thumping of bass, strong enough to make the walls tremble.

Zane slipped out into the club’s main dancefloor, melting into the crowd. Just another partier on the scene. The difference in temperature, noise level, and light was dizzying. _Hot loud dark_. His mouth curved into a smirk as he moved through the dancers like a shark through water. Zane loved this town.

Saul Torrence was at the blue-lit bar. Another bit of luck. Zane joined the throng waiting for drinks.

There was a trick his maestro assassin had taught him, years ago, about using his appearance. The maestro called it _showing your light_. In the streets, in the shadows, on busy cargo ships - Zane kept his light switched off. Dull your eyes, look away, keep your face neutral. When he needed it, the light was there to use. With a flash of eyes and teeth he was all handsome devil, impossible to refuse. He used it on jobs, when flirting, and sometimes just to get a bartender’s attention.

It worked. _It always works_. Zane had a shot and a pint in hand before anyone else was acknowledged. He winked at the server, a pretty woman with a shaved head. Pity he was working. He downed the shot and started on the beer, leaving a credit on the bar as tip.

It was so easy to let the pulsing music wash over him. The comforting dark. The dampening burn of alcohol. Overstimulation was relaxation. Here, he could be swallowed up.

Still, duty called. Zane turned his cybernetic eye towards the target and scanned. Coming in through the back had spared him the security check that could have cost him his eyepatch. Under his radar, the data drive burned red in Saul Torrence’s pocket. He drifted closer.

It was too loud for words, but none were necessary. Zane let the crowd push him up against the bar. The current was just strong enough to slosh his beer over the rim and onto the target’s lap.

“Apologies,” he said, turning the full force of bright eyes and a charming smile onto Saul Torrence. Eyes on Zane's face meant none on Zane’s hand, which dipped in and out of the pocket before the target even reached for a napkin. Data drive acquired.

Annoyed, Torrence muttered what had to be a curse and wiped away at his trousers. Expensive fabric, Zane imagined. He played up his drunken fool routine, staggering as he patted the man on the back, keeping a benevolent smile on his face as he moved away. Just another person here to dance. Clumsy, clumsy.

The needle patch he’d left in Torrence’s neck had the right balance of numbing agent and slow release to have gone unnoticed. In thirty seconds he would be too drunk to sit up. In sixty seconds he wouldn’t be breathing. The poison mimicked the effects of party drugs popular on Promethea this year. Death looked like an overdose. They wouldn’t even clear out the club for an incident like this - just take him out the back, through that rusty door.

Zane left the rest of his drink on a table. He sauntered out the front this time, into the rainy night, passing the bouncer and a growing line of people waiting to enter the club. SNTNL wiped the whole street’s security feeds from the last hour - electrical pulse, storm related. He touched Torrence’s wallet and ID card, secure with the drive in his jacket pocket. Time to return to Rhys.

Back at Atlas HQ, they used the wallet’s contents to find the would-be assassin and saboteur's source.

Maliwan.


End file.
